by Karen Brooks
Hers wasn’t the only one.
Rising before dawn the morning after my conversation with Alyson, I crept downstairs while the house was still quiet. I wasn’t certain when I would find the time to initiate Betje into the rites of the brew but knew, as the day for departure grew closer, it couldn’t be delayed too much longer. Cool and dark apart from the cresset lamp I held and the rosy light leaking through the window, the cellar was filled with the sharp aroma of hops and the malty one of ale. I wove my way between the additional tuns to the troughs beneath the window. Three now sat where one had once sufficed. Foaming wort bobbed inside and, putting down my light, I pushed up my sleeve and slowly lowered my arm into it.
Cool, the wort was a lover’s caress, sweet and enveloping. My arm slid through the liquid and song burst from me. Louder than I intended, it was both lament and celebration. Borne on every note was my fear of what might happen in the future and my rejoicing in what had. I sang for the ale, the beer, for Betje, Harry, Alyson, Adam, the twins . . . but most of all, I sang for Leander. Leander, who, through his belief and love for me, had made this brewery viable.
In many ways, leaving for Gloucester at this time was utter madness, but it was essential to ensure continuity of Crown trade. It was also important that I trust my sister and servants to do what I’d been training them for these last months.
And yet . . . I was anxious about placing trust in anyone other than myself.
Betje is ready. This is her inheritance as much as it is yours—as one day it will be Karel’s and Isabella’s . . .
And so I sang my song in a way I never had before and felt the ale respond.
About to lift my arm, another voice joined mine. I swung around, my hand still in the wort, to see Betje descending into the cellar. One hand on the wooden railing, she raised her head, smiling, her song continuing as mine briefly faltered. An image of the corner crones cackling and performing a jig danced across my vision.
Fate, my old women, the goddess Ninkasi, Mother Mary, or the good Lord Himself (or perhaps all of them) decreed the time was ripe.
With one arm tranquil in the wort, I held out the other to Betje. Moving as fast as she was able, her eye shining, her face too, she folded herself against me, her tune uninterrupted, eager. Together, we turned to the trough and sliding my arm free from the wort, I twined my fingers around Betje’s and lowered our arms into the ale. She gave a small gasp that became part of the song. Swirling the mixture gently, working in a rhythm, we sang.
Memories of the first time my mother introduced me to the ale, to this wondrous ceremony of transformation and thanks, overlaid themselves upon our ritual.
Whispering to her the same words Mother had to me all those years ago, I encouraged her to keep singing as I spoke.
“In touching the ale and singing of its goodness and richness, my sweetling, we bring it to life. The ale is alive in ways we don’t understand. It’s one of the great mysteries of existence, a gift given to us by the ancient gods and which the good Lord welcomes. The brew lives so we may be nourished and find pleasure in imbibing, so we may honor the heavens. So we sing to awaken it to life, to give our thanks and love for what it adds to our days. For though we are mortal and our time here fleeting, ale and beer are of the immortals. When we drink their gift, for a brief moment we become one with them.”
Indicating she should keep her arm immersed, I reached for a tankard and filled it. “It’s time to thank those who keep constant watch, who dwell within all breweries whether the maker is aware of them or not. They ensure we respect this gift, this bit of immortal magic, and pay our proper dues. Ignore them at your peril. The corner crones are the gods’ emissaries, and we must acknowledge them and what they do.” Taking Betje’s other hand, I drew her away from the wort and moved from one corner of the cellar to the other, bending and offering the crones their daily libation.
As we finished, we emptied the tankard, our faces aglow. Betje threw her arms around me. We held each other tightly and I could feel her little body trembling.
“Oh, Anneke, I’ve touched the stars and seen heaven.”
“Aye, my love. That you have.” I dropped to one knee and took her chin in my hand. “You must remember to do this each day, sweetling. No one must know. Do you understand? It’s our secret.”
She nodded, tears welling in her eye.
About to release her, I saw something move on the stairs.
It was Harry.
Crouched down, he didn’t know I’d seen him.
He’d witnessed the forbidden, the pagan rites that gave my ale and beer its quality, its “magic.” Mother had warned me that if it was discovered, what we did would be considered an act of heresy that would attract the most brutal punishment.
“People fear what they don’t understand,” she’d explained and told me I must tell no one. “They would believe it devil’s work. Yet it’s most godly; it’s of the divine.”
Harry’s spying on us didn’t disturb me as it would have only months ago. I’d changed, our circumstances had as well, and, if we were to succeed, if the wheel of fortune should turn in our favor, if I was to go to Gloucester, the time for secrets was over. The gods and corner crones had spoken. It was time to trust those beyond the family, those I knew would protect the de Winter traditions and those responsible for carrying them out.
“Harry,” I called.
Betje exclaimed, spinning out of my arms, her hands flying to cover her mouth. She gazed from me to Harry and back again, fear on her face.
“It’s all right, sweetling.” I held out a hand. “Come here, Harry. There’s some folk I would like you to meet.”
And so, on what became a bright summer’s day, Betje and Harry not only met the crones, but sang the ale to life. Together.
All this coursed through my head as Alyson and I journeyed along the bumpy road to Gloucester. Birds swooped and warbled, gliding on the air; in the hedgerows, fat bees purred, supping on the late-blooming flowers.
This was only the third time in my life I’d traveled anywhere, and I confess that I was captivated by the sights, from towering trees resplendent in their cloaks of umber, claret, and jade to small churches, great estates, thatched cottages with wheezing chimneys and freshly plowed fields. A noble lady’s box-like carriage rumbled past, replete with at least thirty outriders and dozens of carts laden with chests and servants for which we had to pull off the road, as did pilgrims and priests, knights and peasants. Concerned for our comfort, Leander intended we would be five days on the road with accommodation organized at inns, a private home, a priory, and a wealthy merchant’s house in Oxford.
Overwhelmed by the chivalry we were shown, Alyson kept sending prayers of thanks to Mother Mary and Leander, all the while smoothing the fabric of her new tunic or twirling the laces on her surcoat.
Dispatching letters from each of our stops, I wrote to Betje, describing what we’d seen that day, what we’d eaten, and resisted the urge to send reminders to care for herself, the babes, and the brew. Instead, I sent instructions to Adam, who I knew would understand that my intention was not to harangue but to reassure myself. It was testimony to Alyson’s trust in Adam that she left the day-to-day running of the bathhouse to him as well.
“He’s a Godsend, that man. Kind and clever, decent, he is. You’re blessed to know one such as him. I’m blessed . . .” Hesitating, she pulled her lip. “Pity ’bout . . .” Her voice trailed off and she found something else to distract her. She never did explain what was such a pity and I never thought to ask.
Finally, on the twenty-second of October, after a wet, gloomy day on the road, we arrived in Gloucester.
* * *
A light rain fell as we passed beneath the city walls. The outriders showed our papers to the porters, paid our fees, and with a bow and lingering stares, we were admitted. Gloucester itself was a large city, best known for being the place where King William ordered the Domesday Book written, and as the resting place of King Edward (which
Alyson determined to visit—“I must have that badge to add to my collection”). It was also renowned for the number of wool merchants and drapers who dwelled within the walls. The enormous spire of Gloucester Abbey loomed large, dwarfing the many other churches competing for God’s attention and ours. Parliament would sit within the high Abbey walls the day after the morrow, when His Grace King Henry would meet the commons and make the laws that governed our land. However, I was more interested in ensuring the ale and beer I’d made was available and fit to drink. In order to do that, I had to unload the cart and check the contents. The beer would be better for having been left, but if the ale had soured, then the entire trip would have been for naught. We were staying at Master John Banbury’s house, a well-known merchant who was acquainted with Leander and who, we were reassured, would care for our cargo and us.
We rolled along Northgate Street, passing by an open market in the middle of which was a huge cross. Turning right, we entered Westgate Bridge Street, one of the main thoroughfares. Crowding the street were numerous inns, cottages, and multistory houses, many with shops. The familiar stench of slaughtered animals greeted us as we passed the butchers’ stalls. Side by side in their aprons, the butchers hacked, plucked, and blooded the carcasses, all the while shouting to attract customers. On the opposite side of the street, more genteel operations were underway in the mercers’ shops. I drank in the sights, the crowded houses, the occasional crofts, the Boothall, and, through a gap in the buildings, the wide, flowing Severn River. Barges, some larger craft, and punts idled by the docks. Mid-river, boats lay at anchor. Swans and ducks clustered fore and aft, drifting in the dark shadows of the vessels.
It wasn’t until we passed St. Nicholas’s Church that we came to Master Banbury’s house. It was a huge, imposing place of three stories, and though it was made of wood, the roof was tiled. A wool merchant, Master Banbury was also the bailiff of Gloucester. We rode through wide-open gates, past the large shop with its milling customers, into an enormous galleried courtyard where chickens, pigs, and horses roamed, and servants carried buckets and baskets. In one corner, a smithy worked a forge, while in another, two boys fought with wooden swords. Shouts issued as we appeared and servants ran forward to grasp the reins, one leaping on the back of the cart, startling Alyson, to instruct the driver.
The horses were brought to a halt and the outriders dismounted, stamping their feet and exchanging loud greetings with Banbury’s constables, who came forth when they saw who’d arrived. Two beautifully dressed older servants stepped forward carrying small wooden steps that they promptly placed on the ground for me and Alyson. Their forearms hovered at just the right height for our fingers to grasp as we alighted.
Nodding thanks, I stifled a groan as my feet hit the dirt. Though we’d taken our time reaching Gloucester, enjoying four changes of horses and a slow journey, the trip had still taken its toll and I was grateful to be off the cart, even if I’d sat upon a plush cushion for the duration. From Alyson’s muttering and moans, she felt the same.
A man wearing a velvet surcoat appeared.
“God give you good day, ladies,” he said, and bowed. “I’m Master Edulf Hardsted, Master Banbury’s steward. If you would follow me.”
Ushered past the kitchens and through a side entrance, we followed Master Hardsted’s stockinged calves up some stairs, along a well-lit corridor, to a burnished wooden door, which he opened, gesturing with a sweep of his hand that we should step through. Announcing our presence in dramatic tones, he closed the door behind us, abandoning us in what was evidently the solar. From a chair by the large window, a man of medium build with light brown hair and dancing dark eyes rose.
“God give you good day, Mistress Anna, Goodwife Alyson. I am Master John Banbury and I do most humbly welcome you to Gloucester and my home.”
Master Banbury was a congenial man who quickly offered us refreshments. Sipping a Bordeaux wine, no less, from a fine goblet, I studied the room, noting the large crackling hearth, the number of chairs, the tapestries, swords, shields, chests, and tables displaying plate and other fine objects. Master Edulf reappeared and whispered something to his master.
“Excuse me,” he said. “What with guests arriving hourly, the king imminent, and business making demands, I am a poor host.”
We reassured him this was not the case, and he advised that our barrels were being taken to the abbey where, once they were stored, we’d be able to inspect them.
Master Banbury escorted us back downstairs, where we were given further refreshments in the great hall. Around us, servants worked, preparing the room for what looked to be a feast. Additional trestles were erected, rushes replaced, silver shone, candles renewed, and extra wood for the fireplace brought in. We learned from one of the knights seated by us that a special supper was being held tonight, hence the preparations.
“Are we invited?” asked Alyson.
“I’d have thought Master Banbury would have made mention.”
Alyson scowled. “Aye, you’d have thought.”
While we may have fooled others with our fine garments, Master Banbury knew what we were and evidently didn’t want us gracing his tables that evening. Though I felt embarrassed, I couldn’t blame him. The king’s retinue was in town; Gloucester was filled with nobles, merchants, and the highest church officials as well. This was his chance to make an impression, just as it was mine, and there was no place for brewsters and bathhouse owners in his hall tonight, even if they were acquainted with the Rainfords and on the king’s business.
Clearly I hadn’t made a very good impression on Master Banbury, despite my fine clothes and manners.
Some people looked through facades and still didn’t see.
* * *
Finally, we were taken upstairs to our room. The housekeeper, a stout but surprisingly young woman, advised us that a tray would be delivered at suppertime. Until then, we were at liberty to explore or rest at our leisure.
“The master apologizes for not inviting you to dine in the hall tonight, but he said it’s not a place for ladies. He’s hosting the Worshipful Company of Mercers, you see, and Master Thomas Chaucer—he’s likely to become Speaker for the Commons, you know—and a few others. He said it could become rowdy.”
After that, my impression of Master Banbury underwent an immediate reassessment.
As we settled ourselves into the room, with its generous pile of furs on the bed and a window opening onto an expansive view of the town, Alyson pulled her boots off and asked, “How are you s’posed to meet the king if he’s not here yet? My understanding was we deliver the brew, stay a couple of days, then return, hopefully with the king’s blessing in our ears and a contract for more ale in our hands.”
I sat on the bed. The mattress was soft, the furs quality. My hand stroked them absentmindedly.
“That was my assumption as well. I’m sure His Grace can’t be far away—the town is bursting with folk expecting him. Not all of them will be able to wait upon His Grace’s leisure.”
Alyson leaned back in her chair. “Neither can we. I was happy enough to place some distance between myself and Master Fynk for a few weeks, but king’s decree or naught, I’ll be heading back within a day or two. Some of us have to work.”
“Aye.” I flung myself back on the bed, my arms describing arcs in the fur as my head sank into the soft pillows. Sunlight dappled the ceiling, making the panels between the dark beams writhe. “Some of us do. But thank the dear Lord, not right this moment.”
Intending to rest my eyes but briefly, I drifted into the deepest of slumbers.
* * *
It was not yet vespers when we took advantage of the late sunshine and wandered through the town. Master Banbury may not have desired us in his hall (with good reason), but he showed us hospitality in other ways, sending an escort for us when he learned we’d like a stroll before supper. Master Gervase Fuller was a newly appointed constable, the youngest son of a successful fuller who lived by the quay. Having grown
up in Gloucester, he was able to show us the best streets and take us to shops where the owners were less likely to swindle visitors. We wandered along the main road, back past the large cross to Oxbode Lane, which was bursting with shops selling everything from beads and spices to knives, candles, and laces. Bartering with the shopkeepers, Alyson purchased some gloves for Betje and Juliana, a necktie each for Adam and Harry, and other trinkets for the girls. Near the Church of the Holy Trinity, I bought some lovely fabric for a new tunic for Betje and some dresses for the twins. Like Alyson, I spent my coin on baubles to amuse Betje and Harry as well as something for Juliana, Constance, and Emma. For Adam, I bought a beautiful quill made from a dark wood that had an elegant peacock feather attached.
The afternoon sunshine quickly faded to the soft hues of gold, rose, and duck-egg blue. The first stars twinkled in the firmament, and a flock of starlings rose to swerve one way, then another, before disappearing to the west. As we passed by a tavern and some alehouses, talk was loud and much of it about the king. He’d arrived at the abbey only hours before, whilst we slumbered, with his vast entourage, including his sons. My ears pricked for news of Leander, but with so many by the king’s side, the chances of even a whisper were unrealistic. Nonetheless, I hoped.
What we did hear were rumors about the king’s health. Unable to ride the distances to which he’d once been accustomed, his river journey from his estates in Lancaster had been slow. He was afflicted with a skin complaint that rendered him very ill; no doctor or apothecary had been able to fathom the source of it, though many had tried. Doctors in Gloucester were poised to come to his aid if necessary.
King Henry had assured the Lancastrian succession with so many sons, but that didn’t stop the Ricardians, who either still believed King Richard was alive or that his blood should inherit, stirring up old enmities. Even here in Gloucester, I’d heard the king referred to as the usurper—a name that could land the person uttering it in a great deal of trouble. All I could think was that the king’s health must be a great deal worse than I’d suspected if that sort of talk was about.
